Fucking Fight Back
by Tired TM
Summary: Stan Pines falls victim to a human trafficking ring, 5 years after being kicked out. Forced to fight for his life, will he survive? CW Human trafficking, violence
1. Chapter 1

Stanley knew that he was fucked.

He knew he should have gotten away from the cartel while he could, but damn it, he got caught

up in the comfort of having food and a bed…

He should have known better. He gaped as he stared at his latest load of "cargo."

"I said I'd do your drug runs. And I did. But I ain't doing this! People aren't fucking cargo!"

"Pity then. I thought you could be trusted to do this, after all these years. Oh well. You can join

them instead, gringo. You're strong. You'll fetch a pretty penny."

"Wait, No!"

Stanley stumbled as he was shoved into the shipping container and stared while the doors were

pushed shut. The odor in the container was foul, full of the scent of waste and unwashed

bodies. The other people in the container kept their distance, wary of the newcomer. Stanley

sat, unable to move.

 _Human trafficking… Damn it, I got in too deep! Now look! I'm gonna be fucking sold. These_

 _people are gonna be sold._

 _Shoulda thought it through better, damnit. I could have done something useful and set them_

 _free. Dumbass._

"I'm so sorry. I had no idea… I'm sorry."

Not much time had passed by the time the shipping container began to move, causing the

occupants of the shipping container to fall over.

 _Damn, they must have found someone else to move us._

Stan, deciding that there was nothing he could do at the moment, leaned against the wall of his

temporary prison.

 _Heh, wouldn't Pops be proud of me now? Five years away from home, and I'm already banned_

 _from 3 states, have been to prison, helped run drugs, and now I'm going to be sold like cattle._

Tears began to bead up in his eyes, though Stan refused to let them fall.

 _What the hell is going to happen to me? There's no way this will end well for me. This is gonna_

 _end with me dead, isn't it?_

 _No. I can't think like that. You're a survivor Stan! Gotta think of a way to escape. Bide your time_

 _and escape when they least expect it._

Eventually, the shipping container jolted to a halt, bringing Stan out of his reverie. Shortly after,

the door to the shipping container cracked open, and through the door a single order was

barked.

"Line up, single file!"

Everyone quickly lined up as told, including Stanley. Two men quickly walked down the line,

carefully chaining each individual to the person in front of them. Once that was done, the taller

of the two men barked out "Move it!" prompting the line to begin moving. Stan tripped,

unprepared for the movement, only to be roughly tugged upwards without a word. Stan squinted

against the light of the building they were walking into, adjusting after hours of darkness.

 _We're in some sort of warehouse… and there's lots of people, in chains and not. Guess this is_

 _where we get sold. God, I wanna puke._

People with haughty expressions walked through the lines of people in chains, occasionally

pausing to inspect someone.

 _Some of these people are dressed mighty nice… God, it's like we aren't even human._

Stan looked around, stunned at what he saw. Dozens of people were in chains, heads bowed

and bodies scarred.

 _So many of these people… they look so broken. Will that be me?_

He was brought out of his thoughts when a hand grabbed him roughly by the chin, bringing him

face-to-face with a man with a rank cigar in his mouth and a fancy suit clinging to his skin.

"This one looks strong. He been broken in yet?"

"No sir, he's new. A fresh catch."

"Hmm. Unbroken ones are always best. Get to do it yourself. How much?"

"10,000 dollars, sir."

"Bit high, don't you think?

 _Heh, guess I'm finally worth something. Ugh, that was awful, even for me._

"No sir. It isn't often that we bring unbroken goods to the floor. We like to train them first.

Besides, he's probably the healthiest one in the room."

"You have a point. I'll take him. Cash, as usual."

"Perfect."

Stan stared blankly as his shackles were disconnected from the people next to him, in shock at

what had just occurred. He watched as money exchanged hands, and he was loaded into a

small trailer with a few others.

Once the doors closed, he allowed his tears to fall.

 _I'll never get to see my family again, now. God, what's going to happen to me?_


	2. Chapter 2

Stan startled awake when the trailer rolled over several large bumps. Dazed, he rubbed his

eyes as he gained his bearings again.

Didn't even realize I fell asleep. Alright, where am I?

The trailer once again jolted, this time as it came to a rough stop, causing Stan to slide a bit

towards the front of the trailer.

Right, I remember now. I was sold. Shit. Is this a temporary stop or is this where we get out?

Stan groaned as he stood up, his body aching from the long ride.

Fuck, it's hot in here. Where are we?

Several bangs and shouts were heard from outside, and Stan shrank against the back of the

trailer, along with the other three people. Glancing around, he saw that the others had their

heads down and shoulders hunched. They were completely silent and didn't look up to

investigate the clamor outside.

They're used to this, been through this cycle before. I'll follow their lead. Might mean my

survival.

He quickly hunched into himself, staring resolutely at the floor. Seconds afterwards, the door

opened to reveal harsh sunlight.

"Line up."

Stan followed at the end of the line, watching as the others slowly got down from the trailer.

Following their example, he managed to avoid stumbling as his feet hit the hard dirt.

"This way."

The group of people were led to a large building, where they were lined up against a wall.

Before Stan could find the time to process what was going on, a high-powered hose was

blasted at the group, knocking down the weaker ones.

The icy water hurt Stan's skin, the pressure from the water only worsening the pain. Stan

couldn't breathe as he was hosed down, but it wasn't long till the water was turned off.

Goddamnit, that hurt! Was that a fucking fire hose?

Stan pushed the sopping hair out of his eyes just as the man who bought him walked in.

"I own you now. You will refer to me as Boss. Follow our orders, and I may let you live."

This bastard… we're less than human to him, aren't we?

"Any defiance will result in death. If you try to escape, you will die. While some of you may

consider this a mercy, consider this: It won't be quick. I will ensure that your death is as slow

and painful as possible."

Holy shit.

"Send them through processing. Inform me when they're finished. I want to inspect them

personally."

Processing?

Stan had no time to finish that thought as he was roughly grabbed by the arm and pulled

towards another area in the building. He was dropped into a chair, and before he could recover

and adjust, straps were fastened around his ankles and wrists. Hands grabbed his hair, yanking

his head back roughly.

"OW!" he shouted, unable to keep quiet.

"Shut up." accompanied a sharp blow to the side of his head, hard enough to whip his head to

the side. Stan grunted from the pain but said nothing else. Dull scissors pulled as much hair as

they cut, but soon he was released from the chair and led into another room with yet another

person waiting there.

"Strip." The order came unexpectedly, sharp in the otherwise quiet room.

"Wait, what?"

"I didn't ask." said the unknown man, rolling his eyes. "Strip."

Stanley peeled his wet clothes off, shaking from both the cold of the water still clinging to him

and from the fear coursing through his body.

What are they gonna do to me? God, I wanna go home. I just want to go home!

"All of it. Now."

Stanley didn't hesitate before also removing his underwear, already fearing being hit yet again.

After he was nude, he was shoved into another room. A stark contrast to the last room, there

was a fire roaring nearby being tended by several people scurrying around.

What? What's this?

He was quickly shoved into yet another chair, and quickly strapped in.

"From now on, you'll be known as number 48."

"Wha-?"

Stan's world erupted into pain as a hot iron was pulled from the fire and pressed into the skin of

his shoulder, his skin searing underneath the white-hot metal.

He couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't even scream. It HURT too much. He couldn't even

react as the iron was pulled from his skin and a second one was pressed next to it. Stan's

mouth was open in a silent scream, his body trembling and tears pouring down his face. The

pain seemed to last forever and as the iron was pulled from his skin, he found himself gasping,

slumped over in the chair. All too quickly, he was pulled from his chair, handed a bundle of

fabric, and led out of the building. Stanley stumbled and fell as he was shoved into another

small building, faintly hearing his captor saying

"Number 40! Educate the new one."

Silently, another person appeared in Stan's field of vision. Stan flinched away, clutching the

bundle he had been given to his chest.

"Get dressed, 48. You've got a helluva learning curve ahead of ya."

After Stan had shakily gotten dressed, hissing as the shirt he was given scraped over his brand.

40 handed him burn cream.

"Put that on. The boss doesn't like dealing with infections. It wastes time."

"O-okay."

"I'm 40. Everyone here goes by numbers. Don't even try for real names, 48. We aren't allowed

to use those. Use of real names is punished immediately. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Now shut up and listen. When the Boss addresses you, respond promptly and respectfully.

Never address the Boss. Got it, 48?"

Stan nodded, swallowing hard.

This really is my life now. I'm stuck here.

"We serve one purpose: entertainment." 40 stated, sitting down in front of Stan.

Wait, what? Is this a joke?

"We do so, by fighting in an arena."

"So, like boxing?" Stan enquired, raising his eyebrow.

"No. This isn't the damn kiddie circuit. There are no rules, there is no holding back, and

weapons may or may not be provided."

Weapons? What the fuck…

"All matches are death matches. Either you win by killing your opponent, or you lose and are

killed by your opponent. If you somehow subdue your opponent and refuse to kill them, you both

die. No exceptions."

Oh God, they want me to kill. I-I can't kill people!

"I can't kill people!"

"Then you'll die. Not my problem."

Stan shuddered at the thought of killing another person, head dropping between his knees as

he tried to understand.

"Your first match will be in about a week. Better practice. It'd be a pity to die in your first match.

You wouldn't be the first to do so, but still. A pity." 40 stood up, rolling his shoulders back.

"Anyway, it's inspection time. Time to line up."

Stan got up, stomach rolling, and stood alongside the others in front of the building, standing as

still as possible. The Boss walked down the line, circling each individual, and occasionally

stopping to inspect someone closer. When the Boss reached Stan, he stopped. Grabbing Stan's

chin and forcing eye contact, the Boss narrowed his eyes, deep in thought.

"I spent a lot of money on you, 48. You better be worth it."

Stan's eyes widened in fear, and the Boss let go of his chin.

"Good news, everyone is permitted dinner tonight."

Dinner? We get fed?

"Don't get too excited, 48. We get fed, but it's the bare minimum to keep us going." 40 said as

he passed by. "Turns out fights are more entertaining when the people fighting have energy to

fight."

Stan followed 40 into a mess hall and got in line behind him. Before him, tightly sealed foil

packages awaited, with each person getting one.

"You only get one. Don't try to get more, it'll just end badly."

"Alright, 40."

Stan had no clue what was in the packet he was given, but it was disgusting in every sense of

the word. Desperate, he scarfed it down anyway and drained the cup of water he was allowed.

That was worse than fucking prison food. But I guess even prisons have standards.

This is really happening, isn't it? I'm still in shock. I was free and fine two days ago! How could it

all go downhill so damn quickly?

Stan followed the line of people in front of him in a daze, eventually reaching a low building with

a handful of blankets laid on the floor.

"Find a place to sleep." 40 said, yawning.

Dunno what I was expecting, I'll be honest. No reason for us to have beds.

Stan settled against a wall, away from the others, and gave into the tears that had been

threatening all day. Keeping his sobs muffled, the reality of what happened hit him.

I'm going to die here. I'll never make up with Ford, never see Ma or Shermie again. They'll

never know what happens, either. They'll be in the dark, forever.

God, I'm so sorry. If only I hadn't been such a fuck-up, I wouldn't be here.

Stan, exhausted and in pain, fell into an uneasy sleep.


	3. Chapter 3: Interlude

Stanford groaned as he woke up, sunlight shining into his eyes. Sitting up and rubbing his hands across his face, he glances around his motel room, disoriented. A shadow of a bad dream clung to his mind, but he couldn't remember what it was about.

 _I should have closed the curtains last night. What time is it?_

Stanford glanced at the clock by his bed, seeing the numbers click over to 9:33 AM.

 _Not too late. I have time for breakfast before I go check on how construction is going on my house._

He pushed away his covers and reached for his glasses, slipping them into place as he stumbled towards the coffee pot. Setting it to start brewing, he sits within reach of it, and starts digging into a burrito he had stashed in the motel fridge the previous night. The remaining shreds of his bad dream were swiftly forgotten.

 _I'm finally here! I get to study anomalies, just like I always hoped. I'm getting my own house, too!_

His eating slowed down as he continued to let his thoughts wander.

 _I wonder… how is Stanley doing? It's been awhile since Mom has gotten a call from him… at least that she's told me about. I should call her, anyway._

Shoving away from the table, he reaches for the phone and starts dialing his Ma's number.

"Pines family, this is Caryn."

"Hey, Ma."

"Stanford! How are you? Are you getting settled? Do you need anything?"

"Ma, slow down. I'm fine, I'm still in a motel right now, and I've got everything covered."

"Oh, good. I'm so proud of you, Stanford! First you graduate early, and now you're getting a house!"

"Thanks, Ma."

"Are you sure there's nothing you need?"

"Actually, I was wondering if you had heard from Stanley lately? I know he'd call you occasionally, and I had a bad feeling when I woke up this morning."

"I'm sorry, Stanford. I haven't heard from your brother in about a year now. And to be honest, I'm worried sick. He normally calls more frequently."

"Oh. I'm sorry, Ma."

"It's okay, baby. It's not your fault. The best we can do is hope he's alright."

"Yeah."

"I have to go sweetie. Call me again soon?"

"Of course. Goodbye."

Stanford hung up the phone, the bad feeling from earlier returning. _Stanley hasn't called? Odd. I have to admit, I feel worried too. I haven't seen him in five years now, and to be honest, I miss him. I put so much blame on him, but I guess I turned out alright after all. I hope he's doing good, wherever he is._

Stanford finished off his food and coffee, brushing away the niggling feeling in the back of his mind in favor of getting dressed. Shortly afterwards, he found himself on the road towards his cabin, eager to check on the construction progress. It looked nearly completed as he pulled into the driveway, workers bustling around to finish up. He waved over the head of the project, eager to check in.

"Hey, how is it going?"

"Pretty good, sir. Almost done, just finishing up the interior. If all goes well, we should be done by tomorrow afternoon and you can start moving in."

"That's excellent!"

"Would you like to walk through it really quick?"

"Yes, I'd like that."

Stanford listened as the worker showed him which light switches went to which lights, and explained where work still needed to be done.

"I appreciate all the work you've done."

"It's our job."

"I'm still impressed. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Stanford left shortly after, deciding to grab lunch at the local diner. It had been a good day, and the rest of it would be spent doing some research.

The diner food was greasy but good. Stanford chewed slowly as his thoughts once again returned to his brother.

 _I wonder why I'm thinking of Stanley so much? It's been five years. I guess the lack of work to do has given my thoughts time to wander._

Ford paid his bill and walked outside to his car, hands shoved into his pockets.

 _All I can do is hope he is safe. I'd like to see him again, if only for a moment._


	4. Chapter 4

Stanley Pines woke up with a gasp, head whipping from side to side.

"Get your ass up, 48. It's training time, and I suggest you take advantage of it. That is, if you want to survive."

Quickly realizing where he was, Stan stood up despite his body's protests.

"Sure."

"We have dummies outside. We're not allowed to fight each other till the ring."

"Alright."

Stomach growling, he headed outside to see the training area. There, he saw a hubbub of activity with fists flying, knives slashing, and staves twirling.

 _These must be the weapons we're allowed to have in some fights. Damn, there are a lot of good fighters here. How am I even going to make it past my first fight?_

Brushing his thoughts aside, he found an empty dummy and began to warm up. After doing so, he found comfort in the familiar feeling of his fists flying and his body moving.

 _Heh, it's been a long time since my punches were used against a dummy instead of a person. That won't last long, though._

Panting, Stan took a moment to breathe. Sweat coursed down his back and forehead, and he was quick to wipe his hand away.

 _I need to get my hands on a knife. I'm not as good with them, and I have to be ready._

He walked around until he found a rack half-full of a variety of knives. Stan picked up the first one that caught his eye, quickly testing how sharp the blade was against his thumb, narrowly avoiding slicing his finger open.

 _Shit, that's sharp. Good._

He walked over to another mannequin, testing his grip on the blade before swinging it through the air, swift jabs and slashes whistling through the air as he zoned the rest of the world out. Stan allowed himself to take comfort in the rhythm of the blade, forgetting his pain and his situation. He worked with the blade for a long while before a shout brought him back to the real world.

"LUNCHTIME!"

Stan startled, almost dropping the knife. He looked around, seeing the others neatly put their weaponry away and head towards the building they had eaten in last night. Stanley followed suit, stomach growling in anticipation. He retrieved his allowed rations of food and water, then sat down. He quickly scanned the others at his table, taking note of how they were built and their numbers.

 _I might as well observe the opposition. I could fight any of these people, and they won't hold back. I can't trust anyone here, not when they could use that information against me. My best bet is to train and get through the fighting. Then maybe one day I can get an opportunity to escape._

With a plan in mind, Stan finished what was on his tray, downed the rest of his water, and headed out to the training field. Instead of going for the knives again, Stan reached for a staff, fingers curling against the warm wood, worn from a lifetime of use. Taking it in hand, he felt the weight of it and swung it a few times, getting a feel for it.

 _Never used one of these before. This is the one I'll have the most trouble with. Better fix that._

He walked over to a dummy set a distance away from the rest.

 _The last thing I need is to hit someone else with this fucker. That'd probably put me in even deeper shit._

Recalling how others had held their staves earlier, he mimicked their stance and hand positions, and started to land blows to his target. It wasn't long before a hand slipped and his staff smacked him in the face.

"Fuck!" he glared at the staff, angry that he had fucked up. Readjusting his grip, he managed to find a decent rhythm and method to at least land hits to the dummy, albeit clumsily. Stan continued to train until the sun began to sink lower, and his muscles began to cry out with exertion.

 _I got to where I could at least manage a staff. It'll have to do._ Stan headed over to the rack, setting his staff down. He stretched his arms out as he headed inside.

 _We've eaten at around the same time both yesterday and today, so I'm going to assume we only eat once a day. Might as well sleep._

Stanley took the opportunity to snag a blanket and settle against the wall like he had last night. It wasn't long until exhaustion claimed him, dragging him into a deep sleep.

 _Stanley opened his eyes, confused. Where was he?_

" _Stanley." he froze. Turning around, he saw his father. Face as expressionless as ever, "Filbrick's mouth hardly moved as he spoke._

" _I always knew you would fail. Why do you think I tossed you to the street? And look at you now. First jail, then a gang, and now sold as a commodity. Pitiful."_

 _Filbrick faded away, only to be replaced with his mother. Tears dripped down Caryn's face, smudging her makeup._

" _All you had to do was be less selfish, Stanley. You could have stayed with us, but you had to have your dream instead of letting your brother have his. Now you're both ruined. And it's your fault."_

 _Stan collapsed to his knees, hands over his ears._

" _No, no! I never asked for this! I never meant to hurt anyone, I never- I'm sorry!" he sobbed, tears streaming down his face and dripping to the ground._

" _You ruined my life, Stanley. I could have been someone. Done things you couldn't have imagined. But you couldn't let go of a childish dream."_

 _Stan looked up to see Ford glaring at him through his glasses, hands clenched into fists._

" _I hate you, Stanley."_

Stan jolted awake at this, breath shuddering as he cried. Despite trying to keep quiet, a nearby lump stirred and sat up. Turning to face his direction, the person hissed at Stan.

"Shut the fuck up. Nobody wants to hear your shit."

Stan nodded out of reflex, biting his hand to muffle the noise. When that failed, he stepped over and around the scattered people sleeping, and sat down outside. There, he allowed himself to sob until he could no longer. Once he had no more tears to shed, he laid down on the hard-packed dirt, staring up at the expanse of stars glittering above him. As he stared, a shooting star streaked its way across the sky. Stan's red-rimmed eyes widened briefly and he took a second to make a wish, something he hadn't done since he was a child.

 _Please, please, let me make it out of this alive. If I get nothing else in life, it will be OK. Just let me survive this._

With his wish made, he stood up once again, and headed back inside. Laying back down once more, sleep reclaimed him.


	5. Chapter 5

For the first time in a long time, Stanley Pines woke up slowly. It took him a second to place where he was, but reality soon came crashing down on him.

 _Heh, first good dream in years. Makes waking up here seem so much worse._

Stanley stretched as he sat up, soreness lingering from a week of harsh training sessions. His skin was stiff with sunburn, and the still-fresh brand throbbed. He looked at his shoulder to see that his brand had finally begun to heal since receiving it about a week ago.

 _Looks better than I expected. Doesn't look infected._

The area was still tender and swollen, the burn itself a bright red and leaking clear fluid. Stan took the time to re-apply burn cream to the wound, hissing at the slight pain the pressure caused.

 _40 said that I'd have a fight in about a week… well, it's been a week. Any day now, I'll be thrown into the ring. And in that ring, I'll have to fight for my life. Kill or be killed._

Stan shook himself out of his thoughts, and stood up to stretch. He could already feel his body changing from the scarce food and hard exercise.

 _I got too used to steady meals. That was stupid of me, and I knew it at the time._

Leaving the sleeping area, he headed outside. Seeing nobody around, he then headed to the mess hall.

 _Yep, everyone's here. Looks like there's food left too. Good._

Stan grabbed a portion and sat down at the nearest table. Soon after, someone else plopped down next to him, causing Stan to jump.

"There's gonna be a fight today, newbie. Ya ready?"

Stan turned to see who was talking to him, taking a second to check their brand to see what their number was.

"How do you know I'll be fighting, 36?"

"Boss always has the healthiest of the newbies fight first. Good buildup, tends to draw a bigger audience. And you always are put against a more experienced fighter."

"Oh."

"I'd say good luck, but there is no luck here. Just grit and blood."

With that, 36 got up and left, leaving Stan with a building sense of foreboding.

 _Shit. I have less of a chance than I thought. Fighting against someone who's already killed before…_

Stan quickly ate his food and returned to the barracks, grabbing a blanket and slouching against the wall.

 _No reason to train and waste my energy if I am going to fight. No matter what happens, I have to try to get through this. For Ford. I have to see him, at least once. To apologize. I should have gotten over myself while I had the chance._

Stan eventually fell into an uneasy sleep, interrupted when rough hands grabbed him.

"Wha- Hey!"

"Shut it, 48. It's go time."

 _Go time? Oh God. fuck. Nonono, I-I can't do this. No, I can't, I'm not ready, I don't want to kill!_

His panic was cut short as he was brought to a new building and led into a small room. The man who had led him roughly shoved him inside, slamming the door and leaving him alone.

All around him he could hear chatter and people moving, excited voices ringing in his ears. Stan listened as bets were placed, jokes were made, and people settled into their seats.

 _They're betting on who will die. That's a whole new level of fucking sick._

Stan's stomach churned unhappily, and he swallowed against the bile rising in his throat.

 _You can't afford to puke, c'mon Stan. You'll survive this._

Announcements soon began to ring through the building, almost drowned out by the cheers of the crowd. Stan shuddered as the weight of the situation fully sank in.

 _They're here to watch someone die. This is fun for them. God, I'm sorry Ford. Ma. I really got myself into a fucking mess._

 _I should have just begged to come home._

The announcements cut out, and a second door opened to a bright light. Stan walked through cautiously, hands brought up to defend himself. He found himself in a wire cage, with his opponent in an identical cage across the ring. He couldn't tell what number they were, but he could tell that she was a woman, thin and wiry. She stood in the center of her cage, staying perfectly still. Stan made eye contact with her, and instantly regretted it. Her eyes were full of an icy fury, and a desperation to survive. Stan's eyes flicked around the ring, taking note of the tall wall. Spikes protruded from it, some of which were encrusted with old blood. Before he had time to look at the crowd, a buzzer sounded and the door to the cage opened, freeing him and his opponent. She had no hesitation, running towards him and throwing a quick punch towards his stomach. Stan could feel the breeze from her punch ruffle his shirt as he stumbled back, barely dodging the hit. He threw a fist forward, barely managing to graze her cheek before pain exploded in his shoulder. Blood began to drip from his brand. Stan retaliated with a quick jab to her stomach. Hit for hit was exchanged, each opponent missing as much as they managed to land a hit. Stan grew tired, and felt his hits begin to weaken.

 _Gotta finish this. Now._

Gathering his strength, Stan threw a left hook into the woman's head, knocking her off balance. Sweeping his leg under hers, she hit the dirt hard. The woman gasped for breath, unable to move. Stan straddled her stomach, wrapped a hand around her throat, and squeezed while he threw punch after punch at the woman's face. Adrenaline kept him going long past when blood began to pool under her head from the damage, his fist flinging both his and her blood through the air. He still didn't stop until he was pulled from her body, struggling briefly before he lost his strength and the realization of what he had just done hit him.

 _Oh god, I-I did that. I killed a woman. I murdered her!_

Unable to contain his nausea, Stan puked. He retched until there was nothing left, and he continued to dry heave as he was dragged from the arena. Soon, he felt himself being sprayed by an icy hose, but he couldn't find the energy to react. Empty, he slowly walked towards the barracks, lost in his thoughts.

 _I killed that woman. I-i never wanted this. I'm so sorry. I should have just given up._

Stan sat against the outside wall of the barracks, staring blankly at the stars.

 _Ma, Ford… I'm so sorry. I hope you never discover what I've done._


	6. Chapter 6

Stanford had been dozing lightly when a wave of harsh nausea hit him. He rushed to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before the contents of his stomach were making a second appearance.

 _Something's wrong with Stanley. I know it._

As soon as he finished dry heaving, he rinsed his mouth out and ran for the phone, intending to call his Ma. The phone rang right before he picked it up, and he was quick to snatch it up.

"Stanford?"

"Ma? I was about to call you. Something's wrong with Stanley-"

"I know, baby. I felt it too."

"What are we going to do, ma?"

"Well, I'm making enough money with being a phone psychic, I can pay for a private investigator?"  
"I can help with the cost. I need to know what is going on."  
"I know, baby. I do too. I'm so worried."

"I am as well. I should have contacted Stanley when you told me to."

"Stanford, you listen to me. This isn't your fault. I doubt either of us could have prevented whatever is happening. All we can do is hope for the best."

"I hate being so hopeless. I want to _know_ , I can't- I can't keep up work like this, I've felt something off for a week now… Ma I'm scared."

"I am too, Ford. But there is nothing we can do, and I know it's late where you are. Please try to care for yourself and get some sleep."

"I will."

"And Ford? I don't want you to be going through this alone. I can't make it down to you, do you have someone you can call?"

"I- maybe. My college roomate, he may be able to help."

"Call him. I love you Ford, but I have to go now. I will talk to you soon."  
"Alright, Ma. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

Ford set the phone down, noticing that his hands were shaking. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he dialed another number, holding his breath while it rang.

"Hello, this is Fiddleford McGucket. Can I help ya?"

"Hello, Fiddleford. Listen, I have a proposition for you."

"Ah'm listenin."

"I need help with some of my research. I know you tended towards more machinery and mechanics, but I can pay you to be my research assistant."

"Stanford, where is this comin from? Ya always was the type to prefer researchin yourself, what's changed?"

"I… I just think I can benefit from having an assistant?"

"Stanford. Don't lie ta me. I know somethin is up."

"Um… I am unsure if I ever told you, but I have a twin brother. Stanley. He… got kicked out of the house 10 years ago. I haven't heard from him since. I've never really felt much of the "twin telepathy" that people think all twins have. But I know Stan's in trouble, and in a lot of it. I can't concentrate and I could really use some help in keeping busy. Ma and I are gonna pay for a private investigator, but I need to do something or I'll go crazy-"

"Stanford. Stop. Take a deep breath, ya were ramblin. Of course I'll come, I'm not doin much. I'll want a better explanation when I get up there and ya've had time to calm yourself down. Alright?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Now, what's your address?"

"618 Gopher Road, Gravity Falls, Oregon. It's hard to find, but it's in between Eugene and Bend."

"Alright. You get some rest, I'll start packing and I'll call ya when I get closer."

Stanford hung up the phone and sat down heavily in a nearby chair, head in his hands.

 _I really should have contacted Stanley when I said I would. I meant to, I just got so busy. And now he could be badly hurt or dying and I have no way to find him. I hope we manage to get the private investigator._

Filbrick Pines had few regrets in life. He was a man who prided himself on being certain of all things in life, including his decisions.

However, having few regrets is not the same as having none. Perhaps his biggest regret in life was how he had treated his youngest son, Stanley. Filbrick had never wanted children, let alone three of them. And twins? That was something he was wholly unprepared for. Because of this, he let one of his sons be the scapegoat, the least loved. Stan had never deserved that, and he realized that now. Because of a single rash decision brought by anger, he had lost not just one child, but all three. Shermie, the eldest, refused to even see Filbrick once he came home from overseas. Ford left quickly afterwards, rarely making contact with his parents anymore. Filbrick very nearly lost Caryn too, and had been confined to the couch for months.

 _It's been eight years since I kicked Stanley out. Eight long years of no contact. And it's my fault, entirely. I have no clue if my son is safe. I can only hope that he is out there, and living well._

Caryn walked into the living room, and sat down next to Filbrick.

"Fil? I have a bit of a confession to make."

"What is it?"

"I-I've been in contact with Stanley, in the past eight years."

"Is he alright?"

"That's what I need to talk about. It's been over a year since I last heard from him, and it's never been this long before. Ford and I both feel like something is wrong. And I want to hire a private investigator."  
"Ok."

"OK? That's all you have to say? Filbrick, our son is missing!"

"I- don't have anything else to say. This mess is my fault, I'll put money towards the PI. And- I hope he finds our boy."

"Fil…"

"Start looking for a PI. I will too."

Caryn stood up to get the phone book, then once again settled down next to Filbrick to search through it.

 _I don't know if I'll find a PI in here, but it's a start. Oh Stanley, please be safe. Let my feeling be wrong._

As she searched through the phone book, she wrote down possibilities in the inside cover of the phone book, alongside previous scribbles. She struggled to hold back tears, but still they began to drip down to the paper. Filbrick wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and Caryn turned to bury her face in his chest. Her shoulders shook with suppressed sobs, and she pretended not to notice the tears dropping onto her hair.

Stanley had to be okay.

He had to be alive.

 _Please._


	7. Chapter 7

Stanley cracked his eyes open, and debated whether it was worth it to get up. He had long since lost count of how long he had been in this hell, but a cold edge was creeping in at night. While the days and nights blurred together in a haze of training and pain, each fight he had won stood out in stark relief. Four fights. Four wins. Four deaths. All by his hand. One punched to death, two strangled, and one stabbed. Each death was like an iron weight strapped to his shoulders, dragging him down.

 _I should just give up. I'm not worth this._

 _But… I can't do that. I need to see Ford._

Groaning, Stan stood and stretched. His body ached and his stomach cramped, the harsh exercise and little food making their impact obvious. No fat lingered on his body anymore, replaced by harsh muscle and bone. If given the chance to see his reflection, Stan doubted he'd recognize his face. Noticing that nobody was in the training field, he headed towards the mess hall. Inside, there was an unusual buzz in the air.

"Did you hear?"

"Fresh meat."

"New fighters…"

"Think they'll last?"

 _More? I wonder how many. Guess I'll find out._

A few hours later, while Stan was training, the newbies were dropped off. Three new faces, new numbers.

 _They all look pretty young. My age at the most._

"48! Show this one the ropes."

The smallest of the new faces, a young man, was shoved towards him. His fresh brand showed his number, 51. 51 lost his balance, and Stanley caught him before he could fall.

"Hi. I'm 48. Let's sit for a sec."

"O-okay. W-what's going on?"

Flashing back to his own introduction, Stan made the decision to be gentler with 51 than 40 was with him.

"Well, uh… we fight. For entertainment. People pay to see us fight-"

"WHAT? That's SICK."

"You must not have been sold before."

"No. I ran away, got caught by the wrong people."

"Mh. Anyway, we fight. In a ring. Each fight is to the death-"

"What?"

51 looked devastated, cradling his injured arm and staring at Stan with tears in his eyes.

"It's no joke, kid. First fight is usually about a week after drop-off, so I suggest training. And, personal tip: don't get close to anyone. They might just be your next opponent."

"I-I can't kill…"

"That's what I said, kid. Four matches ago. It's funny, what desperation will do to you."

With that, Stan got up and walked into the barracks.

 _He looks so young… probably still a teenager. But I can't be soft with him. He's small, weak. There's no way he'll make it long._ _Hell, the three I was bought with are already dead. And 40 died in the most recent match against 46._

Stan sighed, and laid down on the hard floor to stare at the ceiling.

 _It's starting to get cold at night. I wonder if it'll end up snowing._ _Guess I'll find out, if I make it that long._

And with that thought, Stan slipped into a deep sleep.

Stan, sweating from a harsh training session, was taking a quick break in what little shade the barracks offered. He was watching the others train when…

"Hi."

"Hello, 51."

"My name-"

"Your NUMBER is 51. Names aren't allowed here. What do you want?"

"Someone to talk to. I'm bored."

"Train, then."

"That hurts!"

"Might save your life."

"Why do they make us do this?"

"S'fun for them."

"Why?"

"How the fuck would I know? Listen, kid, I know this is hard. I was in your position not too long ago. But it's kill or be killed in that ring, and I can't afford to get attached to anyone. Neither can you. Now scram."

"O-okay."

51 scrambled off, looking hurt. Stan watched as 51 found a dummy to practice on, and finally started training.

 _Huh, he's got a few moves. Might make a couple matches._

Stan got up and once again began training, reaching first for the staff. While he had improved with the weapon, he still needed to hone his skills with it the most. Besides, it's not like there is much else to do.

 _Pretty sure they deprive us of entertainment on purpose. Constant training probably means longer fights._

Stan trained until he physically couldn't anymore, muscles straining and lungs burning. Shortly afterward, the group of fighters were summoned to the mess hall for food. He ate mechanically, no longer caring that his food tasted bad. It just was the way it was, and it was all anyone got. So it faded into the background, along with everything else.

Days passed in monotony, a blur of training, eating, and sleeping, until the date of the next fight.

 _Guess I ain't up, I would have been grabbed already if I was. Looks like 51 is gone, though. And…47. 47's probably the most even match for the brat, she's small. Wiry and fast though, I've seen her train. Guess I'll see who won tomorrow._

Stan disposed of his trash and trudged to the barracks, grabbing a blanket and laying down to sleep.

He was awoken some time later, with the door of the barracks opening. Squinting at the figure entering, his eyes widened when he realized that it was 51 walking in, looking defeated and broken.

 _Hot damn, I thought he was toast. Guess I was wrong._

Stan rearranged his blanket to better cover himself, and once again dropped off to sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

Stanley was eating when a weight dropped next to him, startling him. Glancing to his right, he saw 51 slumped over the table next to him. A flash of pity made itself known before he dismissed it.

"What do you want, kid?"

"How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Eat. Sleep. Keep living."

"I have an apology to make."

"To who?"

"My brother."

Stanley stood and left the mess hall, intent on resting. While there was no true pattern to who was made to fight, it was bound to be his turn soon.

 _Honestly, what's the point of even training anymore… I don't really want to keep going, but- somehow letting myself die is harder than continuing the fight will ever be._ Reaching the barracks, Stanley slumped to the ground and leaned his head back, breathing in the cool air.

 _It froze last night. I wonder if it will again tonight._ Stan closed his eyes, and began to doze off before he felt his arms being grasped in rough hands. Familiar with the routine, he walked with the silent guards on each side of him, letting them shove him into the now familiar room, leaving him alone. The familiar noise of stomping feet and chattering voices reached his ears, announcements occasionally blaring.

Stan took a moment to breathe, then stood beside the second door. It opened seconds later, and he brushed hair out of his eyes and walked into the cage. The noise of the crowd distracted him for a second, but then he glanced at his new opponent. There, across from him in an identical cage, was number 51.

 _This is why I said don't get attached, kid. There is no mercy here._

The young man was panicked, pacing back and forth inside the small area the cage provided. Stan, however, stood still.

 _Dammit, he's just a kid. But I gotta see Ford again… this kid deserves a chance too. I-I don't know what to do… Do I try to win? Do I let him kill me? Dammit, I don't know what to do._

Suddenly, the doors to the cages opened. Both Stan and 51 hesitated for a second, then rushed to meet each other in the middle of the ring.

51 was small, and he used his size and speed to his advantage. He landed several blows before Stan could retaliate, landing a solid blow to 51s face and feeling his nose crunch under his fist. 51 stumbled back, blood dripping from his face. Recovering quickly, he aimed a kick towards Stanley, glancing across his thigh. Blow for blow was exchanged, but Stanley held the upper hand. It wasn't long before Stanley had 51 pinned, panting. 51 was nearly unrecognizable; bloodied, bruised, and panting.

"Please…" 51 wheezed, blood bubbling from his lips. "End… it…"

Stan nodded, moving to grasp 51's head in his hands, twisting it harshly to one side. The crack echoed around Stanley's skull, and tears began to course through the grime on his face.

"I'm sorry, kid."

Stan stood up, swaying. Ignoring the roar of the crowd, he stumbled away from 51, not resisting when his arms were once again grabbed and he was dragged out of the arena, not moving as he was hosed down and shoved outside, his breath misting in front of him.

Snowflakes drifted down from the sky as tears coursed down Stan's face. He didn't even notice he was moving until he sat on the floor of the barracks.

 _I should have let the kid win. It would be better than this._ He thought, as he laid down on the floor, not bothering to reach for a nearby blanket.

Wracked with guilt and sorrow for a young man he never knew, Stan did not sleep that night.

Instead, he grieved for a boy whose family would forever be kept wondering what had happened to their child.


	9. Chapter 9

Six months.

It had been six months since Ford first felt something was wrong. And 5 months since a private investigator has started looking for Stan. The private investigator was able to track Stanley to a Boston prison, but after that, no trace of Stan could be found. It was like he disappeared into thin air after being released.

"I'm sorry Ma'am, but I cannot find any trace of your son in the United States."

"I-it's not your fault" Caryn sniffed "Is it possible for him to be outside of the States?"

"Yes, but there's no way for me to track him if he is."

"Thank you for your time. I'll send your final check shortly."

"Thank you, ma'am. I hope you find your son."

Caryn hung up, tears coursing down her face.

"I-It's no use, Fil. He couldn't find our boy."

"We'll figure something out, Caryn. We just need to keep up hope."

Ford hung up his phone, and let his head drop to the table in front of him. The investigation had reached a dead end, and all traces of Stan had vanished, shortly after his last call to his mother.

"Stanford? Is everything alright?" Fiddleford asked, walking into the room.

"The PI lost Stan's trail, there's no trace of him."

"I'm sorry, Stanford."

"So am I. I don't know what to do…"

"Best we can do is hope for the best, right now."

"I guess so…"

To distract himself, Ford threw himself into his work, cataloging the species of Gravity Falls. He found new and wondrous things every day, but every new discovery was tinged with sadness and regret. Stan would have loved all of this.


	10. Chapter 10

Snow dusted the training grounds where Stan stood. Several others stood with him, watching a truck pull towards the processing building. They stared as 5 new figures stumbled out of the trailer, the soon to be numbers 63-68.

 _It's a couple more people than usual. And they look to be in better health than usual, too. Weird._ Stan turned away and went into the barracks. He'd seen enough for now, he'd be able to get a closer look at the new arrivals later. Stan shuffled towards the corner of the barracks he had claimed as his own, and he brushed his fingers across the tally marks he had scratched into the wall. Eight in total, numbering the fights he had won, the lives he had taken. He had long since lost track of how many days, weeks, months he had been in this hellhole, but he remembered every fight. Aside from the changing seasons, Stan had no other way to track the time that passed. Training and fights seemed to be all that existed anymore, and Stan moved through the days mechanically. Train, eat, sleep, fight. Where determination once burned in his heart, a void now sat.

 _I don't know why I bother anymore. Nothing changes, and everything hurts. I've looked and looked, there's no opportunity to escape._

 _Maybe I should just give up. I'm never going to see Ford again, anyway._

Stan laid down with his ratty blanket, staring blankly at the ceiling. Before he knew it, he had drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

Stan was startled awake when rough hands grabbed his arms, hauling him upright and dragging him towards the ring. He didn't bother resisting, allowing himself to be dragged and shoved into the now-familiar room. The chatter from above no longer phased him, so Stan leaned against the wall, waiting for the door to open. It wasn't long before it did, creaking and groaning along the way. He stepped out into the cage, taking time to observe his opponent. A dead-eyed stare gazed back at him. A single hammer lay in the middle of the ring, gleaming dully under the lights of the ring.

 _Only one weapon? That's new._

The doors to the cages opened, and Stan darted out, determined to get to the hammer first. However, his opponent, an older man, reached the hammer first, immediately swinging the sharp end towards Stan's face. Stan fell back, and had to roll to avoid the next blow, aimed towards his neck. Quickly getting back up, he landed a kick to his opponent's ribs, only for the sharpened edge of the hammer to sink deeply into his thigh. Both opponents fell backwards, the hammer staying stuck firmly in Stan's leg. While the older man gasped for breath on the ground, Stan wrenched the hammer out of his leg, blood gushing out of the wound and pooling on the floor. Adrenaline pumping through his veins, he first smashed the hammer into his retreating opponent's knee, then he swung the unconventional weapon into his opponent's skull, the weight of the weapon causing it to cave in. Stan stumbled back, covered in spattered blood, sweat, and dirt. He felt empty, too blank to even acknowledge the blood that once bothered him so. Stan remained unresponsive until he was blasted with icy water, after which he stumbled back to the barracks. He shivered, and his breath was visible in the cold night air, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Stan collapsed once he entered the barracks, not even bothering to grab a blanket. Despite his exhaustion, Stan did not sleep that night, instead staring blankly at the wall until the sun rose.

Stan Pines was a strong man, but every strong man has a breaking point. Stan's breaking point happened to be fight number nine.


	11. Chapter 11

Freezing rain pelted down onto the training ground, driving everyone inside. Stan followed the others into the barracks slowly, his torn shirt and pants clinging to his body and hair sticking to his forehead and neck. He collapsed once inside, grabbing a blanket and curling into himself. Since his last fight, Stan hadn't said a word, and moved through the days mechanically. He barely bothered to train, eat or sleep. It was a fight night, and he could only hope that he wouldn't be pulled into the ring again. Because if he was, he wouldn't be the one coming back to the barracks. It didn't take long after curling up for Stan to fall into an uneasy, but dreamless sleep.

Outside, freezing rain continued to pour down from blackened skies.

Soon, everything would change.

Stan awoke to shouting and sirens. He exchanged uneasy looks with the other prisoners, while they stayed inside the barracks with the door firmly shut. Despite themselves, every prisoner in the barracks held their breath, hope starting to bloom in their chests.

None of them dared say a word, unwilling to voice their hopes. However, they found themselves huddling together away from the door, staring at it. Waiting, hoping, and praying that the sirens outside were real, that they could finally, finally, leave this hell.

As delicate as the atmosphere inside the barracks was, it was soon broken with the door slamming open, startling the occupants and sending them back against the walls, and each other. A team of officers stood in the doorway, staring at the desperate huddle against the far wall.

"Are any of you injured?" One officer asked, taking a small step forward and lowering his gun. A few seconds passed before 39, the longest-surviving among them, stepped forward.

"Yes. Bruises, cuts, possible broken bones. Burns too. Are you really here to help?"

"Yes, ma'am. We are."

At that, all of the prisoners, including Stan, started to stand up. A chorus of "thank you's" rose from the small crowd, tears and sobs escaping from several hunched figures. Even Stan began to cry, muffling his sobs into the blanket still stretched over his shoulders.

He did it. He survived. And now he and all of the others could finally be free.

The officers gently escorted the group to waiting paramedics. Stan was in a daze as he was examined. When the paramedic looking over him asked for his name, it took him a few seconds to respond, in a voice rusty from disuse.

"Stanley Pines."

"Well, Stanley, let's get you loaded into the ambulance and to the hospital. We'll take care of you more there."

"It's really over?"

"Yessir, it is. You're free."

Freezing rain still poured from blackened skies, as tears once again began to trickle down Stan's face. He did it, and now he was free. He could see Ford again, and Ma, and Pa, and Shermie.

Stan let the tears fall, stuttering out quiet thank-yous between small sobs. The ride to the hospital and admittance passed in a blur, but Stan was warm, and the hospital bed was much more comfortable than the barracks. He fell into an easy sleep soon after laying down, lulled by the bustle of doctors, the beeping of his heart monitor, and the knowledge that he was finally safe.


	12. Chapter 12

It was two in the morning in Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey, when the phone rang in the Pines home. Caryn jolted awake, and stumbled towards the phone.

"Hello?"

"Yes, is this Caryn Pines?"

"It is. Who's asking?"

"This is Jenna Eriksen from New Mexico Central hospital. I'm calling on behalf of Stanley Pines."

Caryn fell to her knees, tears already beginning to build in her eyes.

"T-that's my son. Is he okay?!"

"He was brought to our hospital two hours ago, and is currently in the intensive care unit. However, we believe he will have a full recovery."

Caryn broke down sobbing, dropping down from her kneeling position to sit on the floor, dropping the phone in the process. Filbrick picked up the phone, and quickly got the story from the nurse. Quickly thanking her and hanging up, he crouched down to wrap Caryn into a hug.

"T-t-they found our b-baby, Filbrick. St-stanley's gon-na be okay." she sobbed into his shoulder.

A few tears slipped from Filbrick's eyes as he held his wife close. After she had calmed, he rose to his feet.

"I'm going to tell Stanford and Shermie, then arrange travel to New Mexico. Start packing for us, we're leaving as soon as we can."

Caryn nodded, and stood up to retrieve their suitcases from the closet. As she packed, a small smile graced her face. She was gonna see her youngest once more, and she was gonna hug her boy and never, ever let that boy go again.

Stanford startled when the phone rang, almost spilling a sample of beard cub fur. He distantly heard Fiddleford answer, and prepared to get back to work, when Fiddleford shouted that the call was for him. Groaning, Ford got up and stretched, walking towards Fiddleford with his arms in the air. Taking the phone from Fidds and bringing it to his ear, he muttered out a quick greeting.

"Stanford, it's your father."

"Oh. Hello, Dad."

"They found Stanley. He's in New Mexico."

"Holy shit."

"Language. He's in New Mexico Central Hospital. Your mother and I are packing to go down there now."

"Yeah, I-I'll pack too. But, is Stan okay?"

"He'll live, but they didn't tell us much over the phone."

"Oh, okay. I- I'll see you soon."

Ford hung up with a shuddering breath and a smile on his face.

"Ah heard everythin', Stanferd. Ah'll help ya pack, and Ah'll be ridin down with ya. Gotta make sure ya keep your head about ya."


End file.
